One Idiot Helping Another
by TYRider
Summary: How did Sherlock beat his addiction? Turns out all it took was the dedicated perseverance of one Detective Inspector. Multi chapter WIP.


**A/N: I never know what to put in these things. Just enjoy!**

Another call, another body.

"Poor bloke," mumbled the newly minted Detective Inspector as he watched the forensic team go over the body. They'd been out here long enough for the sun to begin to rise, banishing the pre-dawn darkness and tinging the sky with gold and pink. It was also knocking some of the chill out of the air. For that the DI was grateful.

He had been one of the first on the scene. It was still kind of odd for people to look to him for direction, for orders. He'd get used to it eventually, he supposed. After setting up a perimeter, scouring the body and the crime scene, and taking notes, Lestrade had handed the space over to the forensic team. He was hoping they'd be able to produce some answers since there wasn't much to see.

The morning was shaping up to be fairly quiet one, the hush of it even managed to extend over the crime scene. Lestrade decided to take advantage of it to look over his notes, see if there was anything he had missed. He nodded for Donovan, his Sergeant, to take his place for a moment before wandering over to the edge of the alley.

Leaning against the wall with a chronic weariness that seemed to have come with his new title, the DI pulled out his pocket notebook, the little moleskin he jotted his observations into for safekeeping. He went over what he knew.

Their victim was a middle-aged white male, well dressed, no ID, no wallet, no wedding ring. He was sporting a nasty set of five stab wounds to the chest and had been found lying face down in a pool of his own blood. Looked like a pretty straight forward mugging gone wrong. Lestrade hoped forensics would turn up some fingerprints of DNA so they'd be able to find the perp and close the case quickly.

He closed his notebook and slipped it back into the inside pocket of his gray coat, turning back to the body. He ran a hand through his mostly-dark hair. He had a sneaking suspicion that every crime scene left him with ten new gray hairs. Wanting to say he was too young for this but currently feeling too old, he said nothing.

Lestrade was halfway over to Donovan and the body when he stopped, mid-stride. Shouts were coming from the mouth of the alley, accompanied by the sound of uneven, uncoordinated footfalls. He turned.

A tall, lean, streak of nothing of a man had pushed his way past the police tape and the officers guarding it and was now stumbling toward Lestrade.

"You can't be here," said the DI, taking in the man's appearance.

He couldn't be more than three or four years past twenty. The man was dangerously thin and pale, a thin sheen of sweat upon his brow. His dark fair hung limply in greasy, unkempt curls. Sharp cheekbones seemed to threaten to cut right through the gaunt skin of his face. There was a smug grin tugging at his lips and a wild gleam was in his grayish-greenish eyes. He was a junkie. That much was immediately clear to the experienced cop. He'd arrested enough of them when he was in uniform to be able to spot the signs with ease.

Putting his hands up, Lestrade stepped forward to bar the man's path. "You can't be here," he repeated in a calm but firm voice. "This is an official police investigation. You can't just walk onto a crime scene. You need to leave."

The man sneered slightly, coming to an unsteady halt. "And _you_ need to solve this crime, yes?" he asked with a mocking tone.

Lestrade inclined his head slightly, a bit taken aback by the man's unexpectedly posh baritone and imperious manner. He took a closer look at the man's grimy clothes—designer jeans, expensive button-up dress shirt. Incongruous.

"You can't be here," he tried again, stepping closer to usher the man away.

"You can't solve this crime," said the man, unmoved save for the way he swayed drunkenly in place. He craned his long neck to look around the Detective Inspector. "You probably think it was a robbery gone awry. Idiots," he added with disgust.

"You think it's not?" asked Lestrade without meaning to. His earlier doubts came back to the forefront of his mind.

"I _know_ it's not. Obviously the intent here was murder." He glanced skyward. "No wallet, then?" he asked as an afterthought. "Didn't think so," he said in the same breath without waiting for Lestrade to answer. "Sloppy attempt at a cover up."

"What makes you so sure?" Lestrade asked, ignoring his better judgment in favor of satisfying his own curiosity. Curiosity about the man as much as about the murder. There was something sharp and brilliant about the man, the DI could sense it without being able to put his finger on it.

"Are you blind?" asked the incredulous junkie. "Haven't you seen the man's trousers?"

Lestrade shook his head, dropping his gaze to the ground with a sigh. Secretly, he was disappointed. For some reason he'd been expecting something more substantial and less like the ravings of an addict. He should have known better.

"Come on," he said, grabbing hold of the man's forearm carefully. "You need to leave."

"You don't believe me," huffed the junkie. He wrenched his arm from Lestrade's grasp and nearly sent himself sprawling.

"Don't make me arrest you," warned the DI. He was pretty confident that he could get the kid—for that was really what he was; a stroppy teen—for possession.

The kid glared but allowed himself to be led off the scene. "I'm right," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, just beond the police tape. "It's murder, not robbery. I can prove it."

"Yeah?" prompted Lestrade, some part of him still hoping the kid wasn't just another junkie.

The kid narrowed his eyes, searching the DI's face for something. "You don't think it was a robbery either. Good. At least you aren't all entirely blind, brainless imbeciles. Can't prove it though, can you? Of course not. You don't know what to look for let alone where to look," he rambled.

"And you do?"

"Of course," the junkie said with an offended snort, puffing his chest out a little. He looked away for a long moment, features hawkish. Finally he sighed, a resigned sort of release of air and resolve that reminded Lestrade of himself. He met Lestrade's eyes. "First off, it was the brother-in-law," he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the dead man. "Your victim was a wife-beater when he was drunk, which was often judging by his trousers. Her brother got tired of it and took matters into his own hands." Another pause, another hawkish look toward the street. "The wallet's nearby. Probably in the dumpster one alley over." He pointed. "Lazy."

"How—?" was all Lestrade managed to get out, equal parts incredulous and amazed. If the kid was right, he was a genius.

"Does it matter?" the man spat. "I'm right. You'll have to do your own legwork, gather evidence, create a case. Get the wallet, interview the wife and her brother. That should be enough to be going on with. You'll see." Seeming to be a bit more sober now, the young man pushed away from the rough brick wall and turned to saunter away.

"Oi!" called Lestrade before the kid could get too far. "What's your name?"

"Name's Sherlock Holmes," he called, tossing Lestrade another smug grin over his shoulder before disappearing down the street.

The DI pulled out his notebook again and wrote down the name before replacing it again in his pocket.

"Blimey," he muttered, not entirely certain what to make of the whole encounter. He ran a hand through his hair, sure that there were a few more gray hairs up there since the last time her had performed the gesture.

He walked back over to the body, looking back toward the street one more time before turning his attention to Donovan.

"What was that about?" she asked, folding her arms.

"Nothing. I need you to make a run through all of the neighboring alleys, check the dumpsters. You can take Anderson with you."

"What do you expect us to find?" she asked, arching one sculpted brow and cocking her hip.

"Maybe nothing, maybe a his wallet. Just get on it, yeah?"

"Yes, sir, she said, a little exasperatedly before going to find Anderson and follow her orders.

Lestrade sighed another weary sigh and crouched beside the body, focusing his attention on the man's trousers. He was trying to see whatever it was that Sherlock claimed to have seen.

"Stains," he realized, looking at the front of the trousers. Beer stains were all over. Some looked set-in like they'd been washed. Some were obviously newer. He could smell the alcohol on the clothes. The man must've been pretty drunk pretty often to has spilled so much beer.

He shook his head and stood up, wondering now about the kid. Worrying, too, if he was being honest. He knew what happened to junkies that didn't get well. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"Well, let's solve this and see if he's right," he said under his breath, deciding that if the kid was right, he'd find him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he had already decided to find the kid, regardless. The cop in him knew that the odds of him being able to get Sherlock help, getting him off of whatever drugs he was on, were dismally slim, but the rest of him didn't care. He was determined to help the brilliant idiot.


End file.
